


Sherlock: The Summer of 1922

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1922, Alternate Universe - Historical, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobia, Inspired by Maurice by E.M. Forster, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is at Holmes Manor for his summer holidays, and he's certainly noticed the new groundsman, Gregory Lestrade. He just didn't realise that Gregory had noticed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** beargirl1393
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steve Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.

  
  


_**Prologue** _

_**Sunday, June 25th, 1922** _

  
  


Gregory was Mr Lestrade's nephew. His mother had been unwed, Mycroft had heard, and when she finally got a job in London, she had sent Gregory to be taught a trade by his uncle. The rumours had been courtesy of the maids, all of whom Mycroft had found more than once chattering enthusiastically in the halls and kitchen weeks after Gregory had arrived.

It would die down eventually, of course; new things were only interesting for so long. Gregory had a few mishaps, misbehaving and throwing tools and crashing his uncle's bicycle into the side of Mr Lestrade's smaller work shed. But he soon learned how to master all the tools his uncle used, quickly memorised how to navigate the sprawling grounds and house that made up Holmes Manor, and was a hard worker.

Mycroft didn't interact much with Gregory Lestrade. He met the man- only three years older than himself, which made him twenty- when Gregory first arrived, and had been given a firm handshake, a charming smile, and a wink. Mycroft still didn't know what to make of that, or of all the winks that followed whenever he and Gregory crossed paths.

They never exchanged more than a few “good morning”s, some casual “hello”s, and even a “didn' see that rock, did you?” (Mycroft would gladly forget that he'd tripped over the rock, but Gregory seemed to enjoy reminding him of it every so often).

Mycroft never thought of Gregory Lestrade for any great length of time until after the whole kitchen incident. His life would change rather dramatically in a very short space of time after that.


	2. Chapter 2

**PART I**

  
  


_**Holmes Manor, the Grounds** _

_**Monday, August 7th** _

  
  


Gregory had been working at Holmes Manor for six weeks before he and Mycroft had a proper chat. Mycroft didn't live at Holmes Manor, nor had he really grown up there, but he'd spent almost every summer holiday since he'd been born exploring the vast area. And, in later years, chasing Sherlock around when his younger brother decided to race off on some adventure his imagination had created.

It was a warm afternoon and Mycroft was wandering the grounds, alternating between reading one of the two books he'd brought with him, and trying to pen a letter to a friend from Eton. They'd planned to meet earlier in the holidays, but Dante's parents had decided to visit Italy at the last minute, and Mycroft had only received two postcards and a letter from his friend.

The letter was filled with details of Italy's most famous tourist spots, as well as little thoughts Dante seemed to have just jotted down. It made Mycroft smile as he walked, once again pulling the letter out from between the pages of _The Divine Comedy_ (it seemed fitting, somehow, to keep Dante's letter in the play written by his namesake).

Dante had always had clever hands; he was a gifted artist, and his penmanship was always neat and tidy. Last minute thoughts and details were crammed onto the sides of the letter and even the back in tiny red letters, and Mycroft's smile widened as he ran his eyes over them. He imagined Dante sitting at some café in Rome; scribbling little thoughts down and not at all bothered by the rather turbulent state of the country. Mycroft envied his friend; he'd much rather be in Italy than roaming around Holmes Manor.

He was so absorbed with his letter that he didn't see the groundsman until it was too late; they collided rather violently, and Mycroft would have gone flying back if the man he'd walked into hadn't reached out and caught him.

Warmth was the first thing Mycroft became aware of; warmth and hard planes of muscle pressed against his own rather soft body, and then the smell of sweat, wood, and some type of spice. A soft breath blew across his cheek and Mycroft blinked rapidly as he looked up.

'Better watch where you're goin', Mr Holmes,' Gregory Lestrade said with a charming smile. 'People might take offence to you walkin' into 'em.'

'Um-' Mycroft shook his head and jolted back rather quickly when he realised he and Gregory were still pressed together. He felt cold instantly, which made no sense, seeing as how it was a warm day. 'Y-Yes, my apologies,' Mycroft said, trying to make up for his silence.

'No worries,' Gregory replied and crouched down. Mycroft didn't understand until Gregory handed his two books back to him; Mycroft realised he must have dropped them when he crashed into the older man.

'Oh...' Mycroft reached out and took them, 'thank you, Mr Lestrade.'

'No worries,' Gregory repeated. He reached down for something else and his warm brown eyes ( _the colour of milk chocolate_ , Mycroft's mind supplied rather suddenly) narrowed as he looked it over.

'That's private,' Mycroft snapped rather harshly and reached out to snatch Dante's letter from the groundsman.

Gregory blinked slowly and then offered Mycroft a one-shouldered shrug. 'Sorry, just takin' a look.' He shrugged again and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.

Mycroft carefully folded the letter up and slipped it back between the pages of _The Divine Comedy_. He'd forgotten completely what he was going to pen to Dante; he'd have to try later in the safety of his own quarters.

'So...' Gregory suddenly spoke and Mycroft looked up at him. It annoyed the younger man to realise that Gregory was about two inches taller than him. No matter; Mycroft was only seventeen, he still had some growing to do. One day he'd be tall, like Father.

'Yes?' Mycroft asked when Gregory trailed off.

'What're you up to, then?' Gregory asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'Pardon me?'

'Just wonderin' what you're up to,' Gregory shrugged, the third time in as many minutes. 'I saw you walkin' 'round the grounds, thought you might be up for some company.'

Mycroft's other eyebrow joined the first. For some reason, the thought of Gregory watching him made something in his stomach rather warm. It must have just been the afternoon sun; Mycroft had always enjoyed summer when it wasn't blistering hot.

'I'm fine,' Mycroft said and noted Gregory's shoulders drooping.

'Oh, right,' Gregory nodded and pasted a smile on his face. If Mycroft hadn't been rather good at reading people, he would have believed that Gregory was his usual cheery self. At least, Mycroft assumed he was always cheery; he'd only seen the man a few times since he'd started working at Holmes Manor.

'Right, then,' Gregory cleared his throat and reached out to pull his flat cap off his head. He tangled a hand in his messy brown hair and scratched at his scalp. 'I should probably head in, anyway. Lotta work to do after lunch break and all.'

'Of course,' Mycroft said. 'Have a good afternoon.'

Gregory flashed him another smile- _fake_ , Mycroft's mind supplied- and walked past the teenager, following the well-worn path down the side of the Manor before disappearing around the corner.

_What on Earth...?_ Mycroft thought before shaking his head. He made sure he hadn't dropped anything else before continuing his walk. He decided he'd go sit down by the lake and see if he couldn't finish his letter to Dante before dinner.

  
  
  


_**The Dining Room** _

_**Tuesday, August 8th** _

  
  


Sherlock threw a tantrum at dinner, which wasn't at all surprising. He was ten, far too old to be behaving the way he was, in Mycroft's opinion. But Mummy had always played favourites, and Sherlock was hers. Father was away on business a lot, and when he _was_ home he had much more important things to do than step in and control his youngest son. So, for the most part, Sherlock got what he wanted, and was able to behave the way he wanted.

Mycroft was the only authoritative figure in young Sherlock's life, and he tried his best to kerb his brother's harsher tendencies. It helped that little John Watson lived only down the road, a simple twenty-minute bicycle ride from Holmes Manor. John was rather good at keeping Sherlock focused on one thing at a time, and making sure he didn't hurt himself during one of his many experiments. More often than not, John joined in with Sherlock's experiments, and Mycroft was left trying to look after two ten-year-old boys. Still, for the most part, John was a good influence on his brother.

Mycroft had been weary at first when Sherlock had raced over to him and introduced little John Watson. John was from a very working class family; his father was the local doctor, his mother was a seamstress, and his older sister, Harriet, had recently been married off to some young Lord from London (and Mycroft knew that that marriage wouldn't be a happy one. He'd met the newly-wed Harriet Scott, and her eyes had wandered to the maids more often than not). Mycroft was never one to look down on other classes, but the majority would. Sherlock was from a prominent family, and he would be expected to associate with the proper people.

But his brother had been so _happy_ around John that Mycroft had kept his thoughts to himself. Sherlock was the younger brother, after all, and he wasn't expected to marry or ever have a hand in the family businesses. He could do what he wished; he was free in a way Mycroft wasn't. Besides, Mother and Father never really paid any attention to their boys, other than to make sure that they were studying and acting appropriately in public.

So Mycroft had never said a word, and would only step in if something happened to force Sherlock and John apart. For now, his brother was happy, and that was all that Mycroft cared about. Sherlock would no doubt shout that society could mind their own business. He would use more colourful words, of course.

Mycroft was brought from his musings by a clatter from the kitchen, and he turned to look at the large, closed wooden door that cut off the dining room from the kitchen. Mummy was busy giggling at some little booklet she had in her hands- no doubt another collection of short stories that Lady Holmes and her group of female friends found romantic and intriguing- and Sherlock was mashing his vegetables into his potatoes rather viciously so it looked like someone had been sick on his plate.

There was another loud noise from the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse, and Mycroft placed his utensils on the table and removed the napkin from his lap before pushing his chair back to stand. Sherlock had looked up at the latest noise, looking mildly interested, but Mycroft gave him a firm glare before making his way towards the door. It wouldn't stop Sherlock, of course, but Mycroft had to at least try.

He pushed the door open and paused to take in the scene. The cook, Mr Reilly, was wielding a rather large steak knife, and glaring at Gregory Lestrade. The young groundsman was backed into the corner, his flat cap twisted in his hands. Two maids stood between them, and Mr Lestrade, Gregory's uncle, was trying to stop Mr Reilly from causing any harm.

'I swear I didn't!' Gregory said, and it sounded like he'd said those words at least a dozen times, for Mr Reilly scoffed and took a step forward.

'Now, Mr Reilly, don't you be doing anything foolish,' Mr Lestrade said and held a hand out.

The cook stopped, but still looked murderous, so Mycroft decided to clear his throat. All eyes turned to him, and the young man said, 'Is there a problem here?'

'Yes!' Mr Reilly shouted at the same time that Mr Lestrade said, 'No!'

The two men stared at each other.

Molly, one of the younger maids, turned to Mycroft. 'Mr Holmes, sir, nothing's wrong,' she insisted. 'Mr Reilly simply mistook the situation.'

'I didn't mistake anything!' Mr Reilly said. 'That boy is nothing but trouble!'

'I didn' do nothin'!' Gregory said rather hotly. His tanned face was darkening in rage, and his brown eyes had narrowed at Mr Reilly. 'I wanted an apple, is all!'

'An apple?' Mr Reilly scoffed.

'Mr Reilly, why don't you put down the knife?' Mycroft ordered calmly. The cook scowled at him, but knew better than to fight with Mycroft. Though only seventeen, Mycroft was effectively the head of the household. Siger Holmes was away too often, and it was Mycroft who hired and fired the people who worked at most of the Holmes residences. If Mr Reilly wanted to keep his job, he'd do as he was told.

'Now, would somebody please tell me what's going on?' Mycroft asked calmly after Mr Reilly had placed his knife on one of the stainless steel counter Stops.

'He-' Mr Reilly pointed angrily in Gregory's direction, '- was trying to feel up Margaret!'

'I wasn't!' Gregory denied, and his brown eyes turned to Mycroft. 'Honest!'

'He was in her personal space, leaning over her, pressing against her!' Mr Reilly insisted.

'She was standin' in front of the fruit basket!' Gregory said. He pointed at said fruit basket, which the other maid- whom Mycroft realised was Margaret- was, in fact, standing in front of.

'He was, Mr Holmes,' Margaret finally spoke up.

Mycroft inclined an eyebrow. 'He was pressing against you?'

Margaret flushed, her pale skin brightening as all eyes turned to her. 'No!' she stated firmly, shaking her head. 'He came in and wiped his boots on the mat, he said hello, and he walked over to me. He asked how my day had been, and I was telling him when he leaned over for a piece of fruit. Then Mr Reilly started threatening him and shouting.'

Margaret kept her imploring eyes on Mycroft. 'I swear to you, Mr Holmes, nothing untoward happened. Mr Lestrade didn't touch me at all, nor did he press against me. Mr Reilly is mistaken.'

'I'm not-' Mr Reilly began, but Mycroft interrupted.

'Sir,' he said smoothly and the cook snapped his mouth shut, 'if Margaret insists nothing happened, than nothing did. I believe the young lady. If Mr Lestrade had done something, she would speak up.' He glanced at the maid. 'Wouldn't you?'

'Of course, Mr Holmes,' Margaret nodded. 'My mama didn't raise a fool.'

The other maid, Molly, nodded as well, and Gregory and Mr Lestrade looked at Mycroft while Mr Reilly glared at everyone.

'Mr Reilly, why don't you retire to your room for the evening?' Mycroft suggested. 'A good night's rest should clear you of the anger you feel. Molly, Margaret, you two do the same.'

The three employees nodded, understanding the thinly-veiled order under Mycroft's words. They quickly gathered whatever they needed and left, Gregory and Mr Lestrade staying behind with Mycroft.

'I swear I didn' do nothin',' Gregory insisted as soon as they were alone. 'I'd never do that to a young lady! I know when my attention isn' wanted, I swear!'

'I believe you, Lestrade,' Mycroft said, and Gregory sighed in relief. 'Perhaps you two should retire for the evening as well?'

'Thank you, Mr Holmes,' Mr Lestrade said, nodding gruffly. Mycroft nodded once in return, and Mr Lestrade steered his nephew from the kitchen by the back of the neck. Mycroft watched them go, Gregory's eyes on him the entire time until he disappeared.

Mycroft shook his head and turned to go back into the dining room. Sherlock had disappeared, of course, leaving a mess behind. Mummy was still enthralled with her booklet, not even looking up when Mycroft re-seated himself and got back to his dinner.

 

  
  


_**The Bedroom** _

_**Tuesday, August 8th** _

  
  


Once Mycroft had finished his dinner, he cleaned up himself, taking Mummy's empty plate as well as Sherlock's messy one into the kitchen. He scraped the plates clean and set them in the sink, knowing Mr Reilly or someone else would wash them after breakfast.

He made his way through the mostly silent house and to his quarters, which were in the same wing as Sherlock's. He checked on his brother before going to bed and found Sherlock asleep in bed, the clothes he'd worn during the day still on.

Mycroft tutted but decided to leave, knowing he'd receive an ear-full if Sherlock were to wake finding Mycroft trying to get him into his pyjamas. Mycroft had only just entered his bedroom when he realised he wasn't alone and jumped, hitting his head against the closed door.

''m not gonna hurt you or nothin',' Gregory Lestrade, whom was sitting on the bed, was quick to state.

'What are you doing here?' Mycroft gasped. His heart was going a mile a minute, and he winced when he rubbed a hand through his hair, feeling for any bumps.

'I just wanted to make sure you believed me,' Gregory said. He sat back down and watched Mycroft light one of the gas lamps sitting on the table by the door. The room was thrown into light and Gregory smiled hesitantly.

'I already said I believe you,' Mycroft said and went to his bedroom window. He peered down and realised he'd been correct in thinking Gregory had used a ladder to get into his bedroom. It was on the second floor of the Manor, and there were no vine-covered walls or easily scaled trees nearby that Gregory could have used.

'Right,' Gregory nodded and Mycroft turned to face him. 'Just, uh... wanted to make sure, is all.'

'Yes, well...' Mycroft cleared his throat. 'Is that all?'

'I'd never be inappropriate around a lady,' Gregory said. 'Mum taught me better than that.'

'That's good to know,' Mycroft replied, unsure where this conversation was going. He wasn't sure _why_ Gregory was even in his bedroom.

'Besides,' Gregory said, and looked at Mycroft carefully, 'women, uh... they ain't really my thing.'

Mycroft just blinked, staring at Gregory as though the older man's face would reveal just what he meant by that. Mycroft was by no means stupid; he attended Eton, and one day he hoped to attend Oxford or Cambridge. He was smarter than his classmates; smarter than most of his teachers.

But Gregory Lestrade made absolutely no sense.

'I don't understand,' Mycroft admitted. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft had never been opposed to admitting when he was confused or wrong. Admitting to your faults helped you learn and grow.

Gregory frowned in frustration and twisted his flat cap between his long, calloused fingers. 'What I mean is...' he trailed off and frowned. 'I'm not, ya know... _normal_.'

He looked at Mycroft again when he said the last word, and when he realised Mycroft was still confused, he sighed.

Gregory stood and made his way towards the red-head, who was still standing by the window. He paused by Mycroft and looked at him before leaning over and whispering in Mycroft's ear, 'I'd fancy duckin' into the tool shed with you over any of the maids.'

Mycroft's mouth dropped open and he turned to watch Gregory quickly clamber over the windowsill. He climbed down the ladder but looked up at Mycroft as he did, that charming smile back on his face. Mycroft could do nothing but stare as Gregory disappeared into the dark, and soon the ladder was pulled away.

 

  
  


_**The Lake** _

_**Saturday, August 12th** _

  
  


Mycroft was sitting on a rock beside the lake, the letter he'd been meaning to send to Dante still unfinished on his lap, resting against a battered copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. His thoughts had been centred on Gregory ever since the encounter in his bedroom, and Mycroft frowned in frustration as he stared down at the stark white paper on his lap.

He couldn't seem to get the older man out his head. He'd seen, but not spoken to, Gregory since Tuesday night. Gregory hadn't approached him, and hadn't said anything either. He'd just smiled tentatively at Mycroft, all the bravado from Tuesday completely gone.

Mycroft had a few theories as to why. If he was to believe what Gregory had said, then the younger Lestrade was bent. Rumours would circulate quickly in the country, and Gregory's reputation- as small as it was- would be ruined if even a whisper of Gregory's proclivities were heard. If the police could prove that he had, in fact, buggered someone, then he'd find himself hauled off and charged with gross indecency, like Oscar Wilde almost twenty years earlier. That, or he'd be locked up for life.

It was rather incredulous, then, for Gregory to admit something like that to Mycroft. Of course, Mycroft couldn't prove it, but his word alone was worth more than Gregory's. So why did he say that? He didn't know Mycroft; they weren't friends or even acquaintances. Had Gregory been trying to prove that he really had no desire to act inappropriately around any of the maids or female workers? Mycroft had already stated that he believed him, so that didn't make much sense.

Mycroft wasn't sure what to do, and it was frustrating him. Should he go to Gregory and say he didn't care if the older man preferred men over women? Or should he just ignore it, ignore Gregory, and go back to the way things usually were; he and Gregory living out their lives, Mycroft reading, and Gregory working on the grounds.

Mycroft sighed and tore up the letter he'd half-written. It was mostly rubbish, anyway, and if Dante read it he'd no doubt pen a quick letter asking just what the country air had done to Mycroft's brain.

'Havin' trouble there?'

Mycroft jumped and scowled when he looked up to see Gregory Lestrade chuckling at him. 'What business is it of yours?' he asked rather haughtily.

Gregory held his hands up in defence. 'I was just askin', no need to get upset.'

Mycroft scowled and ripped the paper into smaller and smaller pieces. He opened his hands and let the soft breeze blow a few pieces away before dumping the rest in the lake.

'Can I ask you somethin'?' Gregory suddenly asked.

'You already have,' Mycroft replied. Gregory just stared at him, so Mycroft sighed. 'Yes, of course.'

'About what I said the other day...' Gregory began, but trailed off and frowned as he looked across the lake.

'If you were serious, I have no intentions of informing anyone of your... habits,' Mycroft said delicately. 'Your personal business is your own, it was has nothing to do with me.'

Gregory turned to look at him, and he must have read the truth in Mycroft's eyes, for he smiled brightly and nodded. 'Right, then,' he said and pulled his flat cap off. His hair was wet with sweat, and Mycroft noted dirt on his trousers and shirt, and wood chips caught on his soft, woollen jacket; working in the barn, then.

'What are you doin' down here?' Gregory asked and took a seat on the grass. He splayed his long, thin body out, and Mycroft found his eyes gazing over the larger man; his legs were long, and his trousers bunched around his groin when he laid back; his stomach was flat and his muscles could be seen through his thin, off-white shirt. The sleeves of both his shirt and jacket had been rolled up, showing Mycroft smooth, tanned forearms.

His hands were perhaps the most interesting, aside from his rather soft, round face; his fingers were long but looked strong, both those and his palms rough from working and nights spent racing around his last home. Mycroft spied a few scars from scaling fences and trees, as well as a gash from a broken bottle that had been badly stitched. Gregory had no doubt led the life every young boy did; gallivanting around with his friends and getting into mischief before his mother had sent him packing to his uncle.

'Mycroft?' Gregory said, suddenly jolting Mycroft out of his musings. He turned away quickly, tearing his eyes away from the hollow of Gregory's throat, which showed due to the top few buttons of shirt being undone. The sun had made his already rather tanned skin seem to glow, and Mycroft had had the odd urge to reach out and trail his finger along the older man's throat.

'Pardon?' Mycroft said before he realised what Gregory had called him. 'I wasn't aware we were on a first-name basis.'

Gregory sat up quickly, his face apologetic. 'I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, sir.' Mycroft smirked inwardly at the tone of his voice. 'But there are so many of you Holmeses, it gets confusing for a bloke to remember who's who when he's, you know, thinkin'.' He twisted his flat cap in his fingers, and Mycroft realised it must be a gesture he made when nervous; he'd done it a few times before.

'It's alright,' Mycroft said. 'I don't see a problem using our Christian names when alone.'

Gregory's eyebrows climbed in surprise. 'Really?'

Mycroft himself was surprised by his own words, but he realised, rather belatedly, that he'd been referring to the man before him as “Gregory” ever since they'd met. Well, out-loud he'd always called him Mr Lestrade, but in Mycroft's private thoughts, he was Gregory.

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded. 'I assure you, it's fine.'

Gregory stared at him for about a minute before smiling brightly, and Mycroft found himself smiling return. 'Okay,' the groundsman nodded. 'That's... okay,' he settled on saying and laid back on the grass, his eyes closed against the afternoon sun.

They sat together in silence for a good few minutes, Gregory apparently quite happy to do nothing, while Mycroft idly thumbed the pages of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_.

Suddenly, Mycroft found himself asking, 'Why did you tell me that?'

Gregory snorted, and Mycroft shouldn't have found the sound endearing, but he did. 'Wha'?' he mumbled sleepily and peeled one eye open.

'Why did you tell me that?' Mycroft asked again. 'You couldn't know what I'd do with the information.'

'What _would_ you do?' Gregory replied.

'I could tell people,' Mycroft said. 'Rumours can go a long way to destroying someone's reputation.'

Gregory snorted again and opened both eyes. He tilted his head slightly to look up at the teenager. 'I don' have much of a reputation as it is, Mycroft,' he said, and Mycroft had to fight off a smile; he liked the sound of his name coming off of Gregory's tongue.

'Still,' he insisted, 'even if the police couldn't prove that you'd partaken in, ah...' he trailed off, unsure how to say it, but apparently Gregory didn't have any such qualms.

'Buggery?' he supplied and Mycroft felt his cheeks and the tips of his ears turn pink.

'Y-Yes,' Mycroft stuttered, and Gregory chuckled. 'Why are you laughing at me?' he demanded.

'You're rather adorable when you're flustered,' Gregory told him, and Mycroft's blush darkened.

'No, I am not,' he stated.

Gregory's smile grew larger. 'I reckon I'll be the judge of that,' he said.

Mycroft cleared his throat, trying to get back to his original topic; 'Even if the police couldn't prove that you'd partaken in... _buggery_ ,' he got out, 'they could still charge you with gross indecency. You could be facing anywhere up to ten years in prison.'

'Who says I've done anythin' of the sort?' Gregory questioned.

Mycroft frowned. 'You told me-'

'That I was bent, yeah,' Gregory interrupted, nodding, 'but I never said I'd done anythin' about it, did I?'

Mycroft's frown deepened, along with his confusion. 'If you haven't done anything indecent, then how do you know you're a homosexual?'

'How do other people know they're normal?' Gregory shrugged. He turned his attention back to the sky. 'Don' need to be with a man to know I like 'em, Mycroft. I've been starin' enough since I was a lad to know that I'm different.'

Mycroft mulled that over, and the two slipped back into silence. He'd always assumed that people who were bent decided that they _were_ after they'd experienced that type of thing. He'd heard, and read, many stories about good men and women being lured down the path of debauchery and sin. Mummy and her friends in particular liked gossiping about that type of thing, and Father always had something to say when rumours about miscreants reached his ears.

'Nothin' wrong with bein' bent,' Gregory said suddenly, startling Mycroft of of his thoughts.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. 'Besides your reputation being destroyed, and the police arresting you for indecency, and most of the laws and religions we know describing it as a sin? No, nothing at all.'

'Well...' Gregory hummed and tilted his head as he thought. 'The way I see it,' he eventually continued, 'God supposedly made everythin', yeah? Includin' us?'

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded. Though he didn't exactly believe in God, he'd been raised in the Church of England. The Holmeses attended Christmas and Easter Mass, and went to church whenever Mummy decided they had to get re-acquainted with their faith.

'Well... why would he make me bent if it were wrong?' Gregory asked. He tilted his head slightly to look at Mycroft. 'God's all powerful, yeah? He don't make mistakes, so... can't be a mistake to like other men, can it?'

Mycroft said, 'I'm not saying it's right or wrong. Personally, I don't believe in God.' Gregory's eyebrows climbed in surprise, but Mycroft continued. 'It doesn't matter what I think. Regardless of my personal opinions, the law is the law. If you're caught being intimate with a fellow man, you'll be locked up in chains before you can-'

He was rather effectively silenced by Gregory's warm, chapped lips pressed against his own.

Mycroft blinked, completely and thoroughly shocked. He hadn't even heard Gregory move, let alone lean into his personal space. He'd been looking at the lake, wanting Gregory to understand that he personally didn't see anything wrong with two men being together. If anything, the idea had always intrigued him, and-

Why was he thinking such things when Gregory was still kissing him?

Mycroft had never been kissed. He went to an all-boys boarding school, and kissing your class-mates didn't happen, at least not that Mycroft had seen. He spent most of his holidays at one of the many private properties the Holmes family owned. There was never a chance to kiss anyone unless Mycroft fancied himself one of the maids or cooks or any number of employees he had hired.

Well... he _was_ kissing an employee, wasn't he? So maybe he _did_ fancy one.

Gregory pulled back slowly, their lips staying connected for what felt like an eternity to Mycroft. He didn't realise he'd shut his eyes until he had to blink them open, and when he did it was to find Gregory smiling at him.

'Erm...' Mycroft tried, but his mind had flown off around the time he had tasted Gregory's lips.

'There's a reason I told you 'bout me,' Gregory said softly, and Mycroft could feel the older man's breath on his face.

'There... there is?' Mycroft had to clear his throat to get the question out.

Gregory laughed softly and nudged Mycroft's nose with his own. It made warmth flare, white hot, in Mycroft's belly, and he realised he'd felt something similar before; back when he'd run into Gregory and almost been knocked right over.

'I've been watchin' you, you know,' Gregory murmured, 'ever since I came here and you said I could stay on with Uncle Geoffrey. I spend half my time starin' at the sky 'cause it reminds me of your eyes, you know.'

'It... does?' Mycroft asked, rather breathlessly. He couldn't seem to look away, and his mind was muddled completely.

'You're adorable,' Gregory grinned. He reached up to brush that one errant curl of auburn hair from Mycroft's forehead. No matter how hard the teenager tried, he could never seem to get it to stay in place. 'I like watchin' you when you read; you're so focused on your books, you never even noticed me watchin', did you?'

'No,' Mycroft shook his head. He wondered if he was supposed to answer, but it was too late now.

'Mm,' Gregory nudged his nose again. 'Is it okay if I kiss you again, Mycroft?'

Mycroft just nodded, unable to form a simple “yes”. Gregory grinned brightly in response, his perfect white teeth showing, and Mycroft fancied touching those teeth with his tongue just before all coherent thought left at the touch of Gregory's lips to his.

This time, Gregory's lips moved against his, starting a gentle, easy dance that Mycroft could follow with his own mouth. He could only vaguely taste Gregory's mouth in his own, their lips parting ever so slightly to start new kisses. Gregory tilted his head every so often, changing the angle and making Mycroft's breath catch in his throat. He wanted to reach up and touch; run his fingers through that messy head of hair, tug Gregory close, and pry those plump, sinful lips open with his tongue.

But he'd never wanted to do that before; had never entertained such thoughts. He didn't know how to do that, or even if he was allowed. So he kept his hands in his lap, against his book, and just moved his lips against Gregory's own.

They had to break apart for air, and Mycroft took in lungfuls, suddenly feeling hot and sticky in the cooling afternoon sun. Gregory didn't look much better, but he was still smiling when Mycroft opened his eyes to look at him.

'Alright?' Gregory asked, somewhat hoarsely.

'Yes,' Mycroft nodded, and his forehead brushed against Gregory's. 'Yes,' he repeated.

'I fancy taken' you to bed, Mr Holmes,' Gregory said, and Mycroft gasped, his eyes widening and mouth falling open. 'I fancy strippin' you of them trousers and seein' what's underneath,' Gregory continued. He looked into Mycroft's eyes carefully, a hint of worry there. 'What d'you think?'

Mycroft tried to answer, but before he could even form the words, there was a crash from the bushes behind them, and Gregory leapt back quickly, falling on his arse. Sherlock appeared quickly, and there were twigs in his hair, telling Mycroft that his younger brother had been scaling the trees again.

'Mycroft!' he shouted and puffed loudly, a leaf falling from his lips.

'Sherlock, what on Earth have you been doing?' Mycroft demanded, all thoughts of Gregory's suggestions briefly leaving his mind.

'Nothing,' Sherlock denied immediately, as he often did. He thought if he could keep his activities a secret, his brother wouldn't punish him. 'What are _you_ doing?' he retorted.

It was an innocent question, Sherlock just trying to change the subject, but memories of just what he _had_ been doing quickly fluttered through Mycroft's mind and he blushed vividly. Thankfully, Sherlock was too young to put together the clues; the red lips shiny with shared saliva, the way Gregory was sitting, as if he'd thrown himself backwards, the rather tight grip Mycroft had on his copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. All he saw was his annoying big brother conversing with one of the groundsmen.

'Nothing,' Mycroft said quickly- too quickly, but Sherlock was already busy shifting the leaf he'd half-swallowed so he could sketch it into his notebook. The elder Holmes looked at Gregory, who was picking himself off the grass.

'I better go grab some lunch before me break's over,' he said, looking at Mycroft. 'Think abou' what I said, yeah?'

Mycroft nodded dumbly, having no idea what to say. Gregory smiled in response and picked up his flat cap, slipping it on over his messy hair. He waved slightly at the brothers before heading back towards the house.

'Why don't _you_ go get lunch?' Sherlock suggested as he stomped over to the rock Mycroft was perched on. He nudged Mycroft's leg with his dirty boot. 'I need to sit.'

'You're an annoying little heathen, did you know that?' Mycroft snapped and stood.

Sherlock glared at him. 'What did I do?' he demanded.

Mycroft realised it wasn't Sherlock's fault; he hadn't known he was interrupting. Then again, Mycroft should probably appreciate the fact that he had time to think over everything that had happened. He didn't know just how far he and Gregory would have gone if Sherlock hadn't stumbled upon them.

'Nothing,' Mycroft said, clearing his throat. 'Make sure you come in for dinner, Sherlock. I know you've skipped lunch.'

'Haven't,' Sherlock huffed and puffed out his chest. 'Mrs Hudson forced a sandwich on me while I was collecting berries to sketch and dissect.'

'Still, make sure you're in for dinner, or I shall have to hunt you down myself.' It was a threat as much as a promise; Sherlock hated when Mycroft interrupted whatever experiment or dissection he was performing, and would much rather flounce into the dining room on his own merit than have Mycroft drag him in.

'Fine,' the younger brother scowled. 'I'll be in at seven, there's no need to ruin my fun.'

'Be a good boy,' Mycroft said and reached out to ruffle his sibling's hair. He got the reaction he wanted; Sherlock scowling, whining, and calling him all sorts of names as he pushed Mycroft away and sat heavily on the rock.

Mycroft just smiled and made his way back towards the house; he had a lot of thinking to do.


	3. Chapter 3

  
  


**PART II**

  
  


_**The Lake** _

_**Thursday, August 17th** _

  
  


The last few days had been particularly hot, and it hadn't helped Mycroft's thoughts any. His thoughts were, of course, completely centred around Gregory Lestrade. Like their last encounter in Mycroft's bedroom, the older man kept his distance. He still smiled at Mycroft, though, when their eyes met across the lawn or in the kitchen. Mycroft found himself flushing during every encounter, and that same flare of heat that seemed to revolve around Gregory warmed his stomach whenever he got a small smile from the groundsman.

Mycroft had never considered himself bent. Then again, he'd never really considered himself _anything_. While the other boys at Eton and whatever function Mycroft had been forced to attend would talk about their future wives or the beautiful young women they had met, Mycroft had been more interested in talking about business or politics or the civil war in Ireland.

He'd never felt any need to join in and describe his perfect wife or household. He'd never wanted to have children and add to his wealth. Whenever Mycroft thought of the future, he saw himself occupying some sort of position in the Government- most likely of his own creation- and keeping an eye on his brother. There was never any wife waiting at home, never any children he'd have to keep an eye on and nurture. Regardless of what was expected of him, marrying and continuing the Holmes line had never entered Mycroft's mind.

Though now, after his encounter with Gregory by the lake, Mycroft saw his future shift somewhat; in it, Gregory was there. Still working the grounds, but now at whatever country home Mycroft kept. Or, perhaps being a footman or cook or filling some other occupation at whatever inner-city dwelling Mycroft eventually had to take when he joined the Government. Mycroft's mind seemed to fit Gregory easily into Mycroft's imagined future, and there were always heated glances, shared smiles, and tender kisses and touches, too. Ones that made that same ball of warmth swirl in Mycroft's stomach and... other places.

Mycroft realised that his thoughts were fanciful. For all he knew, Gregory was just having a bit of fun, and his thoughts of Mycroft never went beyond the bedroom. For Mycroft, though, it did.

Gregory hadn't needed any experience to know his inclinations, but apparently Mycroft _had_. And after a few kisses with Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft was well and truly gone.

'This is _boring_!' Sherlock announced and picked himself off the grass. It brought Mycroft out of his thoughts, and he turned his eyes from the serene lake to his brother. They were sitting in the shade of the trees, trying to escape the heat. Sherlock had gone for a swim earlier, as had Mycroft, but neither had ever particularly cared for doing much legwork. At least, Sherlock didn't care if it didn't involve chasing after insects and trying to sketch the differences between the bark on the trees. Mycroft found swimming a bit dull, and would much rather sit on the bank with a book.

'And where are you off to?' Mycroft asked, watching his brother collect his things; a towel, his latest notebook (he always filled them rather quickly) and his writing utensils.

'I'm going to bother Mrs Hudson in the kitchen,' Sherlock said.

'She and Mr Reilly were baking cookies, earlier,' Mycroft said. 'If you behave, perhaps they will share a few.'

Sherlock's eyes lit up at the idea of chocolate and he quickly made his retreat, making Mycroft smile fondly at him. He settled back on the grass, using his jacket as a pillow. The day had started normally enough- slightly chilly in the morning- but had warmed rather quickly. Mycroft was feeling particularly lazy and so let his eyes drift shut. If he took a nap, well... it was about time he took a break from thinking about Gregory.

Mycroft had almost dozed off when there was a loud splash. He sat up quickly just in time to see the very subject of his musings breaking the surface of the water. Mycroft found his mouth going dry as he watched Gregory push his wet hair from his eyes. He did a few laps, and from what Mycroft could see- which was rather a lot- the older man was _naked_.

_Oh sweet Lord..._ Mycroft tried to focus on Gregory's face- on anything but the smooth expanses of tanned skin he could see breaking the surface of the water. It was futile, though, especially when Gregory decided to climb out of the lake.

He was indeed naked. Water dripped in rivulets down his face and body, and Mycroft's eyes hungrily tracked them when they dripped past Gregory's flat stomach and into the thatch of dark pubic hair surrounding his-

'Oh sweet Lord,' Mycroft breathed and almost fell back. Gregory had spotted him already and smiled widely as he approached, apparently not caring that he was _naked_.

'Afternoon, Mycroft,' he greeted.

'Erm... g-good afternoon,' Mycroft eventually got out. Try as he might, he couldn't get his eyes to stay on Gregory's face. Instead, they continued to track the water as it dripped down Gregory's jaw, sliding along his neck, passing nipples made erect by the cold water.

Gregory's chest only had a dusting of fine hair, and Mycroft's fingers practically tingled with the need to touch. His hips were slim, like Mycroft's own, his shoulders broad, _unlike_ Mycroft's own, and his thighs were strong and as tanned as the rest of his body. It made Mycroft's imagination throw up images of Gregory laying out on a towel, naked, and letting the sun caress his body until his skin was heated and gold.

'You ar'right, Mycroft?' Gregory asked, sounding amused.

Mycroft swallowed, and his mouth and throat both felt like sandpaper. He tried to answer, but once again his eyes had a mind of their own; they slid down Gregory's body again and eventually rested on his penis, which seemed to be swelling, standing half-hard against his stomach.

'Oh...' Mycroft breathed, and Gregory smiled.

'Stare at a bloke long enough, it'll affect him,' Gregory told him.

'Erm...' Mycroft could barely wrap his mind around it. He'd taken a hand to himself on a number of occasions, never thinking about anything in particular, just taking care of an urge that all boys his age had (or so his father had told him). Now, his trousers were filling because of Gregory, and Mycroft knew that every future encounter he had with his own hand would be undertaken remembering Gregory just as he was now.

'Have you thought about what I said?' Gregory asked. He was suddenly closer, and Mycroft had to physically tear his eyes away from Gregory's rapidly growing erection to meet the older man's eyes.

'Yes,' he said rather breathlessly.

'And...?' Gregory asked, his eyes filled with hope.

Mycroft nodded. 'I... I'd like...' he took a deep breath and forced himself to form the words. 'My bedroom window will be open, Saturday night,' he told Gregory. He watched as Gregory's eyes lit up, suddenly brighter than before. 'There aren't many people wandering about the Manor on a Saturday night,' Mycroft continued. 'And on Sunday, everybody has a lie in. We... wouldn't be disturbed, if you were to find yourself in my quarters, and... if you were to stay the night.'

He swallowed again and looked into Gregory's eyes, because his own had once again strayed south.

'Is that right?' Gregory asked, and Mycroft nodded again. 'I fancy I'll find my way into Uncle Geoffrey's larger tool shed,' Gregory said. At Mycroft's confused look, Gregory added, 'I don' suppose anyone will notice if there's a ladder left beside your bedroom window?'

'N-No,' Mycroft stuttered. 'My bedroom is on the East side of the Manor; there aren't any trees or gardens that anyone would need to attend at that time of night or morning. And it's hidden from both the front and back of the Manor... away from prying eyes.'

Gregory nodded and his hands went to his hips. Mycroft blamed the groundsman for his eyes once more drifting

'I'd best go then, eh?' Gregory said, and Mycroft was startled from his rather one-track thoughts.

'Go?' he echoed, eyes snapping to Gregory's.

'Before anyone spots me standin' naked in fron' of you,' Gregory said. Mycroft nodded slowly; of course, this would look a bit odd if anyone stumbled across them.

Gregory looked around carefully, but there was nobody in sight; they were well hidden amongst the trees. He quickly stepped forward and Mycroft found his breath caught in his throat as Gregory bent down, took his chin, and pressed a firm yet gentle kiss against his lips.

Like last time, all thought fled Mycroft's mind, his entire being focused completely on Gregory's lips moving against his own. They broke apart too soon, in Mycroft's opinion, and Gregory offered him a warm smile.

'Until Saturday night, Mr Holmes,' he said.

Mycroft could only watch as Gregory made his way around the lake, soon disappearing amongst the trees. Only when he was alone did he let out a shaky breath.

  
  
  


_**The Parlour** _

_**Friday, August 18th** _

  
  


Mycroft was on his way to the dining room when movement from the parlour caught his eye. He backtracked and stepped into the room to find Mummy making Gregory and Mr Lestrade move the piano a few inches to the right. He had no idea why, and voiced himself as he approached his mother.

'The piano was directly in the sun, My,' Meghan Holmes answered, looking fondly at her son. 'I thought it best to move it aside so you could play without the heat annoying you.'

Mycroft offered his mother a small smile and thanked her. Mummy reached out and swept his hair back, making Mycroft blush; Gregory was watching, he could feel it.

'Not a problem, my dear.' She looked at Gregory and his uncle as they continued trying to move the piano; it was rather large, and Mycroft didn't envy them as they grunted and sweated their way through. Though Gregory covered in sweat had been on his mind a lot lately. 'Could you direct them from here, My?' Mummy asked suddenly and Mycroft looked at her. 'I need to make sure Mr Reilly has the rump your father enjoys in the cooler,' Meghan explained. 'Did I tell you your father would be home Sunday afternoon?'

'No, Mummy,' Mycroft replied. He and his father rarely spoke, even when the man was home, so it was no cause for concern. Mycroft would just have to make sure that Sherlock didn't cause too much mayhem. 'I'll watch Mr Lestrade and his nephew,' Mycroft added, and Meghan smiled. She placed a kiss on his forehead before wandering away, and Mycroft turned to the two men.

'Is this okay, Mr Holmes?' Mr Lestrade asked.

Mycroft peered at his piano closely- and it was his, seeing as how nobody else played it- and then to the window. His mind quickly supplied where the sun would be at any given time of day, and he nodded in satisfaction once he realised that his piano was out of the way. He could play in peace without overheating.

'Yes, that's fine, thank you,' he said. 'Feel free to sit down for your own dinner.'

The help always ate in either the small room off of the kitchen or in the kitchen itself. He knew that Gregory ate there, and had begun to wonder what it would be like to share a meal with the older man. He couldn't, of course; their stations wouldn't allow it. But perhaps they could share some type of meal in the privacy of Mycroft's quarters.

'Thank you, Mr Holmes,' Mr Lestrade said, and Gregory and Mycroft shared a smile before the older man was following his uncle from the parlour.

Mycroft watched them go and turned to his piano when they were gone. He hadn't played in a while; most of his time had been spent thinking about Gregory lately. Mycroft approached the black piano and sat on the bench before lifting the lid. He ran his fingers gently over the keys before pressing a few.

Once he made sure the piano was in-tune- which it always was, Mummy made sure of it- Mycroft began to play.

As always when he played, Mycroft felt himself drifting. His fingers and feet moved on muscle memory alone, Mycroft barely having to pay attention or put any effort in. He had been attending lessons since he was three, and continued them at Eton, even though he had mastered playing some years ago. He played through two or three songs, one slipping seamlessly into the other, and didn't stop until he felt someone sit beside him.

A scent he'd come to know as Gregory- hard labour and something spicy- hit his nose before he opened his eyes, and when he turned he found his deductions to be correct; Gregory was sitting beside him, his eyes shining, a smile on his face.

'I didn't know you played,' Gregory said, softly.

'I haven't played much in recent weeks,' Mycroft replied. 'I've been rather... occupied, with other matters.'

'Oh, yeah?' Gregory asked, and turned more of his body towards the teenager. 'What other things?' he questioned.

Mycroft smiled, and let impulse strike him; he leaned forward quickly to kiss Gregory, and found one of his hands reaching up to cup Gregory's cheek. Gregory made a soft sound of surprise, but didn't pull back. Rather, he leaned further into the kiss, letting Mycroft lead for once. After a few seconds Mycroft tentatively opened his mouth, and Gregory took the invitation.

His tongue slowly slipped in, and Mycroft felt a groan leave his lips. The first touch of Gregory's tongue against his would be forever imprinted into Mycroft's memory. The slow, wet slide of their tongues licking against each other would never be forgotten.

Slowly, Gregory broke the kiss, and he leaned his forehead against Mycroft's to catch his breath. 'We should stop,' he murmured, ''fore someone sees us.'

Mycroft just nodded, not trusting his voice to work if he tried to speak. Instead he just leaned against Gregory, soaking up the warmth the man seemed to radiate. When they'd caught their breath, Gregory leaned back.

'What song was that?' he asked. 'The las' one you played?'

' _Für Elise_ ,' Mycroft answered, 'by Ludwig van Beethoven. It's one of my favourite pieces.'

'Can you play it again?' Gregory asked. 'For me?'

Mycroft just nodded and turned back to the piano. He made Gregory shift down the bench a bit using only his hip and shoulder, and Gregory flashed him a smile as their bodies came into contact.

He played softly, letting the familiar song wash over him. He closed his eyes, as he usually did, and smiled slightly to himself. He could feel Gregory, pressed against him, his warmth bleeding through clothing to heat Mycroft up, slowly but surely. He played until he felt a hand on his arm, insistent fingers tugging at his sleeve, and when he stopped, turned, it was to find Gregory's mouth sealed firmly over his, and Gregory's fingers digging into the flesh beneath his button-down shirt.

They kissed for what felt like an age to Mycroft. All he could concentrate on was the wetness of Gregory's lips against his own, and the way their thighs were still pressed together on the small piano bench. Gregory's fingers hadn't loosened their hold on his shirt, and the tips dug into his arm hard every time Mycroft let a small, breathy whimper escape him.

When they finally parted, Mycroft was flushed, his face- his whole body- too warm. He felt like he was on fire, like there was something vibrating beneath his skin. And it all had to do with the young man sitting beside him; Gregory, who had shaken up his world so thoroughly in such a small amount of time. It was madness, he knew, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

'I can't stop thinkin' abou' you, you know,' Gregory said, his warm breath blowing across Mycroft's face, making the teenager want to kiss him again. 'It's makin' me mad, it is,' Gregory continued. 'Can't stop thinkin' abou' you, for _weeks_... makes me feel... _wrong_. Wronger than I am.'

'Wronger isn't a word,' Mycroft corrected.

Gregory chuckled softly.

'You're not wrong,' Mycroft couldn't help but add. 'Different, yes; but not wrong.'

'What d'you see in me, eh?' Gregory questioned. 'A respectable gent like you, havin' relations with a lowly groundskeeper?'

'You aren't lowly,' Mycroft replied. He opened his eyes to find Gregory staring at him. 'I don't see people that way.'

'Nah,' Gregory shook his head, only gently, not enough to break them apart. 'You don't, do you?'

'No,' Mycroft murmured.

'Makin' me mad, you are,' Gregory repeated. 'Walkin' across the grounds, your nose buried in a book. Sittin' under trees, completely absorbed in your only li'l world. You make me wanna do things to you, strip you of those fancy clothes, make you scream when I whisper in your ear. What's a bloke to do bu' stare and get all flustered?'

'Yes,' Mycroft breathed and clutched at Gregory's shirt. 'I want you to.'

'Whisper in your ear?' Gregory asked, and Mycroft nodded quickly, trying to drag him closer.

' _Please_ ,' Mycroft practically begged.

'Tomorrow night,' Gregory said and pressed a kiss to the side of Mycroft's mouth. 'If you still want me, I'll be climbin' through your window tomorrow night.'

'Yes,' Mycroft repeated and kissed Gregory properly.

Gregory returned it fiercely, the kiss so much more powerful than any they'd shared before. Mycroft felt like he was drowning. How one man could change him so dramatically, make him feel things so passionately, in only a matter of days, Mycroft didn't think he'd ever be able to explain.

But he was here, and Gregory was here, and Mycroft wasn't going to stop until they both got what they wanted. What Mycroft wanted, exactly, remained to be seen. Even he didn't know; not really.

Gregory broke the kiss, breathing harshly against Mycroft's face. 'I should go,' he mumbled, his voice sounding strained. 'Before anyone catches us.'

Mycroft nodded, accepting it reluctantly. If only things were different; if only the world in general could see that there was nothing _wrong_ with what they both felt, neither would have to hide. If only, if only...

'Go,' Mycroft murmured and pushed at Gregory's chest. 'Before I change my mind.'

'I'd probably like that,' Gregory admitted with a small chuckle. He kissed Mycroft again, just once, before pulling away. Mycroft kept his eyes closed; if he didn't, he might pull Gregory back. And that wouldn't end well, he knew.

He heard Gregory's footsteps across the hard wood floors, followed by the soft click of the door closing. Mycroft breathed out through his nose and turned to his piano, eyes glued to the keys as he played. He needed a moment if he was to join his mother and brother for dinner; he couldn't very well be in their company, flustered and with a bulge his trousers had no hope of hiding.

  
  
  


_**The Bedroom** _

_**Saturday, August 19th** _

  
  


Like every Saturday, dinner was eaten rather early, at six instead of seven. Mr Reilly always had the weekends off, as did most of the staff, so it was Mrs Hudson who served dinner to Mycroft, Sherlock and Mummy. The conversations were about the softer subjects; Mummy's new ideas for the parlour and sunroom, Father's visit, and Mycroft and Sherlock's schooling. These conversations only lasted minutes each before Mummy moved onto another topic, and by the time dinner had finished, most of the Manor's occupants were already in bed. The weekends were a time for rest in the country, and Holmes Manor was no different.

Marie, one of the maids who worked only on the weekends, came to collect their dessert bowls, and Sherlock was immediately on his feet.

'Don't disturb me, Mycroft,' the ten-year-old ordered. 'I'm dissecting fruits tonight, and I don't want you disturbing my work!'

Mycroft just nodded and watched as his brother ran from the room, his curls bouncing all over his head.

'I think I'll retire for the evening with a book,' Mummy said, smiling warmly at her eldest son. 'What are your plans for the evening, Mycroft?'

Thoughts of Gregory drifted through Mycroft's mind. Out-loud he said, 'I think I'll go to bed early, Mummy. I had a rather long day.'

'Sleep well, love,' Mummy said and kissed his forehead before leaving the room.

Mycroft stayed sitting at the dining table before taking a deep breath and moving. He wasn't sure what time Gregory would be climbing through his window, so he took his time walking through the house and to his quarters.

Once there, he removed his shoes and jacket, but kept the rest of his clothes on. He opened his bedroom window before going to his en-suite bathroom. He fancied a shower, but didn't want Gregory waiting long if he showed up while Mycroft was occupied, so he settled for cleaning his teeth and splashing cold water on his face.

As Mycroft re-entered his bedroom, he couldn't help but wonder just what his family would think if they discovered what he was doing. Father would no doubt use any means necessary to cover it up; having a homosexual in the family just wouldn't do. Mummy would probably ignore it; pretend it hadn't happened.

Sherlock... well, Sherlock would no doubt enjoy teasing Mycroft about his choice in men. He could practically hear it; “ _A groundskeeper, Mycroft, really? Don't you have any taste?_ ” Sherlock had never shown any distaste for homosexuality, so Mycroft wasn't sure if his brother's reaction would hold any disgust.

Mycroft was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost missed it; the soft sound of wood hitting wood, the sound of boots climbing a ladder. He turned quickly to see the top of Mr Lestrade's ladder resting just beneath his window. He wanted to hurry over, but didn't want to seem over-excited. He settled for walking closer and stopping a foot from the window, waiting and watching.

Soon enough, Gregory's head appeared, followed by the rest of him. He grinned widely when he saw Mycroft and quickly climbed into the bedroom. He turned only briefly to close the window part-way, before his attention was back on Mycroft.

'Not changed your mind?' Gregory asked as he stood tall.

'Not at all,' Mycroft answered.

Gregory's grin somehow widened, and he closed the distance between them. He pressed his body completely against Mycroft's and Mycroft grasped in surprise; the closest they'd been to each other was when Mycroft had walked into Gregory, and that hadn't been _this_ close. Mycroft could feel all of Gregory pressed against him; his toned chest, his flat stomach, his strong legs.

Their lips met almost immediately, and Mycroft curled his arms around Gregory's neck, having to tilt his head up to meet the taller man's mouth. Gregory's own hands caught his hips and his fingers dug in, tugging Mycroft closer, trying to quash the non-existent space between them. Mycroft wanted to be closer too; he wanted to feel Gregory's skin against his own. So Mycroft gently tugged on Gregory's neck and tried to nudge them in the direction of his large four-poster bed.

Gregory went willingly, even as his tongue dominated Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft rather enjoyed being on the receiving end, and let Gregory turn them when they reached the bed. He was pushed back gently and their lips broke apart as Mycroft fell, landing on the bed with a muffled _thump_. His breath left his lungs as he looked up at Gregory, who was standing there with lips already slightly swollen, his eyes dark in the poor lighting that came from a small gas lamp Mycroft had lit minutes earlier and placed on the dresser.

Gregory nudged Mycroft with two hands on his knees, and Mycroft could do nothing but comply; he shuffled up the bed until his head had hit one of his pillows, and watched as Gregory kicked his boots off and climbed onto the mattress, crawling first over the duvet, then finally Mycroft's legs, until he was hovering over the teenager.

'Ar'right?' Gregory asked, his voice husky.

Mycroft just nodded and reached up. He threaded his fingers through Gregory's hair and tugged him down, their lips meeting again. Gregory groaned softly against his mouth before prying Mycroft's lips open, his tongue once more slipping in.

Mycroft didn't think kissing could get any better. But when Gregory lowered himself, most of his weight settled between Mycroft's suddenly parted legs, Mycroft knew; kissing was a lot better when Gregory was atop him, rather than beside him.

The red-head found himself thrusting up almost subconsciously; he could feel Gregory's hardness pressing against his own through their trousers, and he wanted to rut like some wild beast; anything to get Gregory against him, to get more friction.

But Gregory wasn't rushing. His fingers were gently tracing the hollow of Mycroft's throat, deftly unbuttoning his dress shirt, ghosting over the sliver of skin revealed when Mycroft's shirt came free of his trousers.

Mycroft didn't realise Gregory had got his shirt mostly open, too absorbed with kissing the man, until Gregory's lips left his and started making their way down his throat, his chest, to his nipples.

He gasped as Gregory licked over one, making it rise into a peak. He had never given much thought to his nipples and was astounded to find that Gregory touching them added to the pleasure he was already feeling. His hands, still in the older man's hair, tugged sharply, forcing Gregory harder against his chest.

Gregory chuckled, his warm breath blowing across Mycroft's wet skin. Mycroft shivered and let out a groan, and Gregory looked up at him, offering him a wink. It was the same wink he'd given Mycroft at their first meeting, and Mycroft had to drag Gregory up for another open-mouthed kiss. He hadn't realised it back then, but he did now; Gregory had wanted him ever since they'd first met.

Gregory's tongue traced Mycroft's lips, his teeth, and stroked along his own. He tasted slightly of tobacco, and Mycroft pictured him having a cigarette before fetching the ladder; nervous, perhaps, that Mycroft might change his mind.

As if he ever could. Gregory kissing him, touching him, just _being_ with him; it was the most fun Mycroft had ever had. He was feeling things he'd never felt before, and he never wanted to lose them.

He kissed Gregory with more passion, sucking the older man's tongue into his mouth, and Gregory groaned and rocked against him. That made the red-head rip his lips away and arch his back. The pleasure was indescribable; their lengths were rubbing together, and it sent shock waves up Mycroft's spine, and into his stomach, and down to his very toes.

Mycroft turned away when Gregory tried to kiss him again, and the brunet looked at him, his eyes confused.

'These...' Mycroft panted, and his hands slid down Gregory's sides to his trousers, 'these need to come off. _Now_.'

Gregory grinned at his sudden commands, but hastily complied. He sat back on his heels and Mycroft pushed himself up on his elbows to watch. Gregory deftly unbuckled his belt and undid his flies, then hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his trousers. He manoeuvred his trousers easily down to his thighs before he had to sit back to get them all the way off.

He wasn't wearing pants, Mycroft noted faintly. Most of his attention was on Gregory's groin.

It was much better up close, especially when Gregory was completely hard. His prick strained towards his stomach (larger than Mycroft's own, the teenager noted faintly), and the head was shiny with pre-ejaculate. Mycroft sat up slowly and tentatively reached out, stopping short of touching Gregory. He looked up and the older man nodded, so Mycroft continued forward.

Gregory was smooth and hot- so very, very hot and _hard_. Mycroft wrapped his hand firmly around Gregory's prick and the man breathed in sharply as Mycroft stroked.

'Oh,' Gregory murmured and leaned into the touch. He shuffled forward on his knees until he was between Mycroft's spread legs once more.

Mycroft was completely focused on his hand as he stroked, at first slowly, and then more firmly when he got comfortable with his action. He rubbed his thumb briefly over the tip and smiled when Gregory shivered bodily. He leaned his forehead against Mycroft's, murmuring words Mycroft didn't catch.

Mycroft found that he wanted to taste Gregory, and swiped an index finger through the wetness over the slit of Gregory's length before bringing it to his mouth. It was odd, slightly salty, but Mycroft didn't mind, really. He looked up to find Gregory watching him with eyes that were dark with want and need, his lips parted as he breathed in and out sharply.

'Gregory-'

'You're overdressed, Myc,' Gregory interrupted.

Mycroft blinked at the odd nickname, but couldn't help but agree. He reluctantly let Gregory's prick go and reached for his trousers, only to find Gregory's fingers already there. Together they tugged Mycroft free, his half unbuttoned dress shirt following his trousers and pants to the floor.

Mycroft found himself blushing as Gregory's warm brown eyes washed over him from head to toe, taking in the freckles that dotted Mycroft's shoulders and arms, the paleness of his skin, the puppy fat that still clung to Mycroft's middle, despite the foods he cut from his meals.

He turned away, suddenly feeling unworthy of someone as gorgeous as Gregory clearly was. But Gregory's rough fingers hooked under his chin, made Mycroft turn, and when he looked it was to find nothing but adoration in Gregory's eyes.

'You're beautiful,' he said firmly and pressed their lips together, sealing the declaration with a kiss.

Mycroft's self-hate was derailed in favour or kissing Gregory, of dragging him down, and he moaned loudly when their bodies came into contact. Gregory's warmth seeped right into his bones, and Mycroft wrapped his legs firmly around the brunet's waist, the two shifting to try and find a good angle.

When Gregory's length came into contact with Mycroft's own, both froze and stared at each other. Mycroft's eyes drooped and he peppered short, gentle kisses along Gregory's face until the older man smiled widely at him.

'You're beautiful,' he repeated. 'Don' ever let anyone tell you otherwise.'

Mycroft just nodded and slid his hands up and down Gregory's warm, well-muscled back. 'More,' he pleaded and kissed Gregory firmly.

There was more shifting, and the bed creaked slightly under their weight. Suddenly, Gregory's hand was wrapping around them both, somehow fitting both their erections into his warm, rough palm. Mycroft moaned into Gregory's mouth, and Gregory hummed, his breath heavy against Mycroft's face.

He stroked once, twice, a few times before establishing a rhythm that made Mycroft's entire body jerk.

'Oh Lord...' the teenager panted and tossed his head back. 'G-Gregory...'

'Feel good?' Gregory asked, and Mycroft just nodded. 'Fuck, you're amazin'... fuckin' amazin...'

He pressed his lips to Mycroft's jaw, but didn't seem able to kiss; his face just sat there, and he breathed heavily against Mycroft as he rocked his hips, helping speed-up the rhythm his hand had established.

Mycroft couldn't help but thrust up, and his legs fell from around Gregory's waist. He pressed his feet firmly to the mattress and pushed up.

'More,' he begged again, his chest heaving suddenly. He could feel sweat beginning to form, and Gregory's tongue was suddenly licking at his ear and neck, chasing the droplets.

The pleasure was exquisite, far better than anything Mycroft had experienced by his own hand. He moaned wantonly and thrust up faster, begging Gregory silently to grip just that bit tighter, to twist his wrist, to make the ball of fire and pleasure burning in Mycroft's gut burst.

'Christ,' Gregory breathed and pressed himself firmly against Mycroft. Their chests slid together, and Gregory's grip on them fumbled before returning, speeding up, making Mycroft pant Gregory's name into the older man's neck. 'Oh God, Mycroft,' he moaned.

'Yes,' Mycroft chanted. 'Yes, yes, Greg, please, _more_!'

Gregory thrust harder and his grip tightened briefly before disappearing. Mycroft whined and Gregory chuckled. The red-head opened his eyes to see Gregory spitting onto his palm.

'There's a... a jar...' Mycroft tried to get out, 'of petroleum jelly... in the night-stand.'

Gregory cocked an eyebrow but grinned before moving away. Mycroft mourned his loss, but knew their coupling would be better with an added lubricant. He watched as Gregory opened the drawer and pushed a few things aside before retrieving the jar of Vaseline Mycroft kept for personal use.

He chuckled as he moved back, once more settling between Mycroft's legs. 'Use this a lot, do you?' he questioned as he twisted the lid free. Mycroft blushed. 'We'll think of some uses, eh?' he said and looked pointedly down- past Mycroft's testicles.

Mycroft's breathing hitched and his eyes widened. The implication of that was... Mycroft's cock jumped against his stomach, and Gregory laughed again and scooped some petroleum jelly onto his right hand and set the jar aside before warming the gel between his hands. He grinned wickedly at Mycroft and bent down to kiss him, capturing his lips just as he wrapped his wet hand around them.

'Oh _God_ ,' Mycroft choked out. It was suddenly so smooth, their lengths sliding together so perfectly, and Mycroft knew he wasn't going to last long. This pleasure was so new and exciting- Gregory was amazing- and Mycroft hadn't ever felt anything like it before. 'Oh God, Greg,' he breathed again and wrapped his arms around the older man's neck. 'Oh, please, please, _please_ , I-'

'Shh, I got you,' Gregory breathed right over his ear. The added stimulant made Mycroft jerk beneath him. 'I got you, Mycroft,' Gregory said.

The slick sound of their cocks sliding together only added to Mycroft's pleasure, and he rocked faster and faster into Gregory's tight grip.

'G-Greg,' he stuttered, and his eyes slid shut. His body was on fire, every nerve ending alight, and he couldn't... he couldn't...

'Lemme see you come, Myc,' Gregory breathed into his ear. 'Come on, lemme see it.'

Mycroft didn't need to be told twice. He let everything- the heat, the wetness, Gregory's body against his- wash over him until he was exploding from the inside out. He jerked beneath Gregory and tossed his head back, thrusting up, semen splashing between their tightly pressed bodies.

He groaned out Gregory's name again and again as his vision went black, his mind swimming hazily beneath the sheer pleasure. He heard Gregory moan above him, and then his body jerked, too, and there was more warmth, more wetness, slicking Mycroft's stomach and chest.

Gregory's fist loosened but still pumped, slowly milking their orgasms, until it moved away completely. Mycroft peeled his eyes open just as Gregory fell half-atop him, his breathing ragged, his face flushed and his hair sticking in sweaty clumps to his forehead.

'I...' Mycroft tried, but his tongue felt heavy, and his body lethargic. 'I... that...'

'Amazin'?' Gregory supplied. Mycroft just nodded. 'Mm,' Gregory hummed and rolled over. He moved closer and pressed a gentle kiss to Mycroft's neck. 'You're amazin',' he mumbled.

Mycroft smiled. 'You are too.'

'Only 'cause of you.'

Mycroft chuckled.


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
  


_**Epilogue** _

_**Sunday, August 20th** _

  
  


'I go back to Eton in September,' Mycroft said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had descended. They had only left the bed to clean up; semen, in Mycroft's experience, wasn't pleasant when it dried. They'd crawled under the covers and had settled down to... cuddle. Mycroft found he quite liked it, especially when Gregory rested his head on Mycroft's chest. There would no doubt be time for more, later. But for now, Mycroft was rather comfortable with Gregory's warm body pressed against his own.

Gregory huffed against his neck. 'Tha's too soon, in'it?'

'Mm,' Mycroft replied. 'But I could always come back during the holidays.'

Gregory sat up to look down at him, his hair falling in messy curls over his forehead. 'Yeah?'

Mycroft nodded. 'I usually spend my holidays at one of our many homes. I could... come back here?' It was a question, because Mycroft wasn't sure what _this_ was. Gregory was learning a trade, after all. He didn't have to stay on at Holmes Manor forever; he could move on to another Manor, another family, another young man who would notice his charming smiles and perpetually messy hair.

'I'd like that,' Gregory grinned, and Mycroft smiled in relief. 'I'd like you to come back. We could... you know, be like this, together.' He frowned suddenly. 'What about when you graduate? Some fancy school after that, I reckon.'

'Oxbridge, no doubt,' Mycroft replied. 'It's where all Holmes men go.'

Gregory's frown deepened.

'I could still come back,' Mycroft was quick to say. 'For... holidays.'

'And then what?' Gregory asked.

It was Mycroft's turn to frown. 'I fancy I'll have to marry, at some point; to carry on the Holmes line.'

Gregory scowled. 'Marry a woman? That wouldn' be any fun.'

'No, it wouldn't,' Mycroft agreed.

Gregory lay back down, his head now on the pillow Mycroft was using. His brown eyes met Mycroft's blue. 'Don't fancy marriage?'

'No, the idea has never appealed to me,' Mycroft said.

Gregory smiled slightly. 'What do you fancy, then?'

'I fancy moving into my own home, and having you be my head groundskeeper,' Mycroft answered. Gregory laughed. 'And I fancy keeping you in my bed, for my personal pleasure,' Mycroft added.

'I fancy that too,' Gregory chuckled. He licked his lips, and Mycroft found his eyes trailing down to them. 'Would tha' work, d'you think?'

'There would no doubt be talk,' Mycroft shrugged one thin shoulder. 'But I've found I don't much care for rumours anymore. I have wealth and standing; nobody would question me.'

'Wouldn' they?' Gregory laughed. 'Gonna threaten 'em, are you?'

'Mm-hmm,' Mycroft nodded. 'I'll do what I wish. I'll keep only a handful of trusted staff who know not to question what I do.'

Gregory smiled warmly at him. 'Have you ever been in love, Mycroft?' he asked, and Mycroft blinked at the sudden change of topic.

'I love my brother, mother and father,' Mycroft answered. 'Well...' he amended after a second, 'I love my brother and mother. I don't see my father enough to really know him, but I suppose I love him.' He looked at the older man. 'Why?'

'I meant love like married folk feel about each other,' Gregory said. 'Like... how you're supposed to feel about your wife.'

'Oh,' Mycroft said, pursing his lips. He let his eyes trace the soft lines of Gregory's jaw, up to his eyes and lashes, his smooth forehead and errant curls. He reached up and pushed them back, and Gregory leaned into the touch, making Mycroft smile. When he removed his hand, Gregory's curls fell back into place. 'I think I'm beginning to,' he answered honestly.

'Me too,' Gregory admitted. He leaned down and kissed Mycroft softly, and Mycroft found himself arching into it, his arms hooking around Gregory's neck to pull him down. 'If the world were a different place,' Gregory breathed against Mycroft's mouth, 'I'd marry you in a heart-beat, Mr Holmes.'

Mycroft smiled. 'This is enough,' he answered honestly and kissed Gregory again.

  
  


{THE END}

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** I'm not quite sure where this story came from, in all honesty. There's a bit of a Maurice feel to it; Greg's a bit like Alec, in terms of climbing through windows and stuff. Most of you guessed that :) I hope the story wasn't too bad; I did a bit of research into the 20s, and 1922 in particular, but I probably got everything wrong. Anywho, I hope it was enjoyable, regardless of my horrible research skills.
> 
> Also, a very big thank you to the wonderful **beargirl1393** , who did a wonderful job picking up all my mistakes and suggesting a few things. You made the story that little bit better :]
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> {IBegToDreamAndDiffer}


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